


Big Deal

by Bdonna, molo (esteefee)



Series: Big One [1]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, POV First Person, zine story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-07
Updated: 2006-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bdonna/pseuds/Bdonna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>We’re going on a double date tonight. Hutch calls it ‘going undercover,’ and as much as I think it stinks that we have to put on a show to avoid people getting the right idea about us, I have to admit I’m even looking forward to it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kassidy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassidy/gifts).



> My Beast.
> 
> This story first appeared in [_Blood and Destiny_](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Blood_and_Destiny), published Oct 2006. It's part one of the five-part The Big One Series.
> 
> Artwork by the incredibly talented [Sonja](http://www.false-colors.net/indexx.html).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the talented Sonja (Bdonna).


	2. Big Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by the talented Sonja (Bdonna).

We’re going on a double date tonight. Hutch calls it ‘going undercover,’ and as much as I think it stinks that we have to put on a show to avoid people getting the right idea about us, I have to admit I’m even looking forward to it.

I haven’t been with a girl since, well, the last time I was with a girl. Which was this gal Susie, who I went out with about a week after Hutch and I started doin’ it. See, I had already set up the date before we first got together (you know, _together_ together), and I kind of, sort of offered to cancel it, because it felt weird seeing a girl when Hutch and I were doing the hootchie-coochie every night after work.

It was real new, see, and I was scared the date might put a kibosh on everything.

But Hutch told me not to worry about it, that it couldn’t hurt our rep for me to be seen going out with Susie (she works in Payroll. Quick with numbers and even quicker with giving out hers, if you know what I mean).

He made like it was no big deal at all, but the next day he acted...funny. Like he could barely stand being in his own skin. And all day long he kept shooting me these looks, as if he didn’t recognize who was sitting next to him, even though who else would be, seeing as we were riding in the Torino on a work day?

That night I took him straight back to my apartment instead of taking him home, and he didn’t say anything, although I could have told him we weren’t going to get through the evening with that situation intact.

Soon as we got in the door, he started pacing around, and I had to move smack in front of him to get him to stop long enough to take off his jacket and his holster. Then he was back to pacing.

“Beer?” I asked, and he sighed and sat down, finally, and grunted something—sounded almost like ‘fuck yeah,’ although Hutch doesn’t tend to talk like that unless we’re on the streets or he’s in a temper (which is a lot—let’s be honest).

I wanted to get him to calm down so we could talk about stuff, but the truth was I wasn’t even sure myself how I was feeling about the night before. Susie had been...sweet. Real sweet. And Hutch and me, what we’d been up to was pretty fucking fantastic, but I wasn’t sure I could see giving up that up. Everything was still too new and scary and weird, and it’s like I needed an escape route or something.

So I wasn’t sure I was even ready to talk about it, anyway. But it turned out Hutch didn’t wanna talk. Instead, when I came over with his can of Coors he grabbed my wrist and pulled me down to sit on top of him, just as if he hadn’t been avoiding me all day like I had the plague (no, not _that_ one).

But I let him do it. I’ve been in a lot of relationships (not that I’m saying Hutch and me are _in_ one, like that, but still) and the one thing I’ve found is most of the talking can be done without even using your mouths. Unless it’s all over each other.

And then his was. All over the side of my neck, his hand reaching around to undo my shirt so he could get at my chest, his fingers squeezing my nips while his mouth was sucking hard at me. I was in his lap—he was holding me there, and it was a strange feeling, I’ll tell you that much, sitting on a guy’s lap with his hard dick pressed against my ass.

I liked it.

Once he had my shirt off he started doing some other stuff that I’d be a little embarrassed to tell you about, seeing as guys aren’t maybe supposed to go in for that sort of thing. Enough to say I had tooth marks the next day.

And the whole time I was squirming in his lap, and he was groaning into my skin, and his hard-on was like a rock pushing against my balls, the hotness pressed right where my cheeks meet ’em, and I started getting an idea.

A very scary one.

Well, scary for me, anyways, since I’ve never done anything like that before. And, as far as I know, neither has Hutch. Had it done to him, I mean.

But I’ve been reading up on this whole guy-sex thing, and supposedly there’s something about having things up your ass that can make you see stars. Literally. And I was getting hot for the idea, so before I even realized what I was doing I leaned back until my head was on his shoulder, and I whispered, “Wanna fuck me?”

He froze, and I shifted around to face him. For a second I thought he had turned into a gargoyle, the spooky kind that you see on the sides of cathedrals (I’ve never understood that. Doesn’t seem very holy to have monsters on your church. Christianity is just plain weird, I’ve decided).

Anyway, Hutch's jaw was open and I could see the gleam of his teeth, and his eyes were hidden and hot like they could glow red at any second. And then he blinked and it was gone, just like that, and he pushed me off of his lap to sit next to him.

“What?” I asked, and I was a little steamed he’d stopped, because my engine was running but good.

“What you said…..” Hutch rubbed his hand over his face like he was sweating (he was) but I knew it was all about the hiding. I hate when he does that. To me, that is.

“Thought it was a pretty hot idea, myself,” I said.

He got up and started with the pacing thing again, only this time he had a huge boner tenting his pants, so at least the view was more interesting.

“I don’t…I-I don’t want to do that to you,” he said. Which, even without the stutter, I could tell was just the hugest lie, but considering the wood in my pants, I didn’t want to argue the point.

“Fine, forget about it,” I said, and he looked at me.

“It’s just…we just started with this thing and I’m afraid…you’d...freak.” He tried to explain.

“Would not!” I said, pissed. Although, I really had no idea if I really would or not.

He rubbed his face again. I sighed.

“Look, forget about it,” I said again. “Really, Hutch.” I got up, went over to him, and dragged his hands off his face so I could kiss him again. “Let’s just get it on,” I said, and then his lips were back into it, and we went over to his bed, getting undressed along the way. I made him go in front so I could watch him get out of his pants, and when he bent over I wondered if he was maybe—what’s that shrink word?— _projecting_ his own hang-ups onto me, wondered if I would ever get a chance up that gorgeous ass of his.

Then we were naked on the bed, and I stopped wondering about stuff because he had his mouth on my cock and was sucking me just right. It always amazes me how good his mouth is on me. It’s not like I haven’t had blow jobs before (although some girls, like Terry, weren’t into it that much. And that’s okay. Not everybody likes everything) but something about Hutch.... I think it’s how he goes about it, like he wants it so bad, like my cock is the tastiest damned thing he’s ever had in his mouth. (Although, considering the goat’s milk crap he eats for breakfast, maybe it is.)

But, of course, it’s more than that. I remember the first time he started sucking me, he kept his eyes on me the whole time, staring up at me, and every time he tried something new and made me yell, a little mark would tick off in his eyes. He’s a good detective. He’s got a pretty good memory for detail.

So he had me on the bed, sucking me, playing with my slit (God, I love that) tickling up there and getting me good and wet all over, drooling on my cock so that I was wet all around, and then he took _both_ of my balls in his mouth at once (if you’ve never had that done to you, I highly recommend it. But you’ll need a partner with jaws that unhinge). And still he was drooling and licking and sucking, his fingertips playing underneath my balls, and I spread my legs under him and bent my knees, getting ready to fuck his mouth as hard as I could just as soon as he gave me half a chance.

But instead of sucking me back in, he lifted his head and I felt his fingers slide lower, so slick with all his spit. And then he touched my asshole with his fingertip, just brushing it across, and my ass jumped up without my making it.

And I think I made an unholy sound.

“Anybody ever…?” Hutch said, real soft, and I shook my head, holding my breath.

“No one?” he said, with this hungry sound to his voice.

And then his finger moved, stroking at me, petting me with just the tip, like a cat’s paw on the door, begging to come inside.

His eyes were on my face, just like the first time he sucked me, and I knew he was looking for something. I didn’t know what. But he seemed to see it, because the tip of that big finger sank in a little, and I let out my breath with a whoosh.

It felt a little weird, yeah, but under the weird there was dark and good. I could feel everything, every little stroke of movement, and something about the purposefulness of it, of Hutch’s intent in pushing into me, gave me the hots. He wanted _in_ , if you get me.

He bent his head again, trailing the very tip of his tongue up my cock, real light, and my dick jumped and his finger slid deeper and I let out this moan that, I swear to God, would’ve raised the hair on your neck. I sounded like one of those ghosts in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland.

And Hutch looked up at me, something in his eyes making me shiver, deep, somewhere I’ve never felt before.

Then he bent his head and sucked me in again, and I howled and shoved my cock up into his mouth as far as I could and came like Vesuvius. Which, I’ve read, is not a great place to stand during an eruption.

But Hutch didn’t seem to mind.

After a while, I came down off the ceiling to find his tongue in my mouth, and his dick like a steel bar pushing against my leg. And I knew what he was thinking—knew just from the way that he was kissing me that he was re-thinking my earlier offer. So I made him let go of my lips and I started to say, “Sure you don’t wanna—”

But he just kissed me again, wet and hungry, stopping what I’d started to say. Then he pushed himself up over me and straddled me, and I knew he was gonna fuck my mouth.

I’d only given two, count ’em _two_ blow jobs before in my life, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to handle all that cock in that position, but I didn’t want to turn him down, so I just shifted until I was sitting up a little more, the pillow behind me, and pulled him in.

He tasted damned good. I have to admit, I liked it from the first time I did that to him—put my mouth on him. And I never thought I could like something like that, even though I’ve always loved doing it to girls. But Hutch...maybe it’s because it took me a while to get my guts up to do it, and I’d been expecting...I don’t know what—that it would be gross, maybe—but when I first tasted him, he tasted _good._ I’ve liked it ever since, but hadn’t had much of a chance to do it to him, because usually he’d rub off against me, or jerk himself while he was sucking me.

Like he thought he had to do all the work.

It’s like there’s still some part of him that thinks he talked me into this whole thing, but the truth is _I_ was the one who first moved on _him_ ; although, since there was an earthquake going on at the time, my memory is a little shaky.

Anyway. That night, the night after I’d been with Susie, Hutch fucked my mouth. Hard. Groaning and pumping and holding my head; but gently, just supporting it so it wouldn’t bang into the headboard while he fucked my mouth with that big cock of his, and then he held his breath and came like crazy without making a sound. When he let out his breath again, it sounded like his last. Like I’d killed him.

Man, that made me feel good.

But it occurred to me as I started to fall asleep that we still hadn’t talked about Susie, or what we were gonna do about girls.

The next morning before we went into work Hutch said, “It’s good that you saw Susie. We don’t want to change…patterns.” But there was a funny note there, too, and he wasn’t looking at me.

I didn't know what to say. After the night before, it was obvious to me that Hutch hadn't taken it that well—my being with Susie. On the other hand, he hadn't actually _said_ as much, and we both knew we had no other ideas for keeping our cover.

Which is why we’re going on this double-date.

And I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling about it.

ooOoo

Oh, shit. I hate it when I’m right.

After a perfectly crappy day at work (you ever seen the stiff from a mob hit? It ain’t pretty) we were both in a bad way before we even started out. But we picked up the gals at their apartment (they’re sisters. Yeah, I know, it’s a little kinky, but what’re you gonna do?) and took them to the Fever Palace, a disco on Melrose. And right away I pulled Christy out onto the floor, because I really needed to work off the mood I was in. Hutch hung back and got drinks for us all, and I guess Candy was a little disappointed, but she didn’t have much choice but to wait with him at the table he found.

And now Christy is dancing around me on the floor, she’s got some sweet moves, and I can _feel_ Hutch’s eyes on me. Not budging. He’s giving me a complex or something. For the first time ever I’m having trouble getting my groove on.

But Christy comes right up to me and wraps her arms around me so we can dance tight and close to Olivia Newton-John, and I stop worrying about Hutch, because if this is going to be an undercover job, then I might as well throw myself into it and really enjoy it. And I love to dance.

Hutch doesn’t like to that much, which is probably why he’s still hanging out at the table, and he must’ve drunk his own drink, and my drink, and Christy’s besides, because when we finally take a breather, he’s leaning on the table with all the empty glasses. Candy seems bored to tears, and she gives Christy a pleading look.

“Hey, Dave, why don’t you dance with Candy a while? I need to take a break,” Christy says, and Candy smiles big, her blue eyes wide under her curly bangs, which are just like Farrah Fawcett-Majors’.

I give Hutch an eyeball check, and his lips are a little thin, but he’s looking to the side like he doesn’t care, so I take Candy’s elbow and escort her to the floor.

When we get back, Hutch is _really_ showing it—that he’s been drinking. And here’s the thing you have to know about Hutch: he doesn’t get drunk very often. I mean, generally he has a couple of beers and then calls it quits. I can count on three fingers the times I’ve seen him totally blotto. The one time was when my girlfriend Terry died, and another was when I _almost_ did. And the third time was when we were celebrating my re-qualification. So it was unusual to see him hammered. I guess he just doesn’t like it, I think maybe because he doesn’t like being out of control.

My partner is a control freak, did I mention?

But tonight, he’s already had at least five drinks, as far as I can tell from the empties, and Christy is looking seriously pissed at this point, and I have to say I don’t blame her. I mean if this is supposed to be Hutch’s idea of undercover work, well...he won’t be able to do a very good job holding up his end, if you get my meaning. Not on five margaritas.

Hell, even I’d have a little trouble.

“I’m gonna catch a cab,” Hutch says abruptly, and the girls look relieved.

“Hutch—”

“Yeah,” he says, and he slides off the stool to stand up, only he has to hold the edge of the round high-table to do it. “Why don’you’n the girls have fun,” he says, slurring the words together.

I try to catch his eye, but there’s nothing doing there.

“I’m sure you can show ’em a nice time,” he says. But he doesn’t sound mad or anything, just tired, and I wonder if maybe it was just too long a day. And I’m sure seeing a guy with his face blown off hadn’t helped much.

“Okay, partner. You get some rest,” I say, and I slap his shoulder.

He nods, really slowly, like his head is too heavy for words, and then he shambles off. It occurs to me to worry that he’s too drunk to call a cab, but then I see him lean over and talk to the bartender.

After he’s gone, I turn back to the gals. “Well, ladies, looks like it’s my lucky night.”

Candy gives a nervous little laugh and tosses those curls of hers.

But Christy raises her eyebrows with the message, ‘guess again,’ and she says, “I think your pal left you holding the tab.”

Dammit.

ooOoo

So I didn’t get laid, and I ended up practically in hock paying for the evening, and this morning Hutch is looking chipper as can be, like he hadn’t tied one on last night. Can you believe it?

He pours me a cup of coffee when he gets his own, but I say “Bring me another fifty cups like it and you’ll finally have paid me back for last night’s fiasco.”

“Didn’t go so well, huh?” Hutch says, and I swear there’s a smirk on his face.

“What the big idea getting soused last night? What happened to our...” I look around and lower my voice. “...our plan?”

Hutch gives me a warning look, and I shut up. But I’m going to have a talk with the big blond idiot tonight.

First, though, we have to work. Another stiff shows up, this time a floater, meaning he’d been found in the water, under the Santa Monica Pier. The fishes had been at him. And the crabs. Tell you the truth, between the sea life and the shotgun, this guy didn’t have much real estate left to identify him with.

Which was, I guess, the whole point.

His prints were tough, too, because he was so soggy, but we lucked out on his pants, of all things. They were custom-made, and after a bunch of phone calls and a trip to the tailor we had our ID.

It was Johnny “Big Toe” Margetti. And get this: he used to work for Roper, the low-life that Callendar had been hired to take out. The guy that had given me the brush-off when I pretty much begged him for my partner’s life.

The guy who later tried to kill Callendar and, in the process, almost killed Hutch’s chances of surviving the plague.

I wanted him.

“You think Roper’s been doing some house-cleaning?” I say, and Hutch nods.

“Says here Margetti’s been caught holding a bunch of times. I think he was a distributor for Roper, if not his top guy. Look at this.” Hutch drops the rap sheet in front of me, then leans over my shoulder to point to the column on bail postings. I can feel the heat of him just behind my back, and I’m suddenly grateful for two inches of reinforced steel desk covering me from the waist down.

“These amounts are incredible,” I say.

I can sense Hutch nodding, then he backs away.

“Let’s see if we can pin this on him, the slippery bastard,” I say.

“Don’t get excited,” Hutch says.

But it’s way too late for that.

ooOoo

It’s not gonna be easy, though.

First off, we know we can't get at Roper through the usual route. He’d barely survived Callendar shooting him outside the hospital, and if his estate was Fort Knox before, now it's like the White House. Complete with ex-Secret Service agents.

Not that we were planning a frontal assault, but usually we like to shake guys up and see what falls out of their tree. That wasn't going to happen this time, though.

So we started with his old heavies. Yeah, Roper used to be small-time just like anyone else, we even busted him a couple of times, and some of the guys he used to run with are active snitches of ours, just trying to get by. One of those is Fast Eddie (says he can get you anything in a hurry). Hutch and I catch up with him at the arcade down on Seventh.

There’s a lot of noise from all the pinball games and stuff, so we manage to get pretty close to Eddie before he sees us. Even so, we’re both taken off guard when the lanky guy just _bolts_ , as if he were on the FBI’s Top Ten Most Wanted list or something.

But Hutch is just as tall, and faster. And I’m right on their tails when Hutch catches up to him out back, grabbing his collar and giving the guy a quick spin-slam against the cinderblock.

“Hi, Eddie,” I say casually, leaning in to breathe in his face. Eddie is sweating hard; he has felony written all over him. Only he’s never been one to cross that line.

“Why’re you looking so scared? We just wanna talk with you, buddy to buddy,” I say.

“You’re killing me,” Eddie moans. His sweaty brown hair is sticking to his face and he’s shivering miserably.

Hutch looks at me with his eyebrows up. He isn’t hurting the guy, is just bracing him against the wall.

“You’re killing me dead just _talking_ to me, _capiche_? I’m a dead man.”

“Why’s that, Eddie?”

“You _know_ why.” Eddie lowers his voice, way down, until we can barely hear him. “Roper, he’s cleaning house. Going legit, they say, because his kid is eighteen now and old enough to start asking questions. Anybody who knows _anything_ and might look to spill it is making his list.”

“Am I hearing you?” I say. “Roper’s decided to go straight, and he thinks the way to do it is to go around killing people?”

Eddie nods frantically. “Keep your voice down, will ya?”

“Well, that puts you in an interesting position, Eddie,” Hutch says. “We might be the only friends you have left in the whole wide world. Maybe if you help us, we can make sure Roper never sees light of day again. He’ll be off your back forever.”

I can see that Eddie wants to shake his head, but he just swallows and stares at us.

I give him a little tap on the noggin. “We like you, Eddie. We’d hate for anything bad to happen to you. So we’re just gonna hang out, spend some quality time with you. How does that sound?”

Well, it doesn’t sound too great to him, if the frantic look is any indication, but he nods, finally, and Hutch relaxes his grip and then carefully straightens the lapel of Eddie’s jacket, giving him a pat when he’s done.

Eddie looks like a puppy who's just had his nose smacked.

We give him a ride home. He’s ducked down in the back seat of Hutch’s latest LTD, a pale blue junky machine that knocks louder than my Aunt Rosie used to whenever she caught me ‘loitering’ a little too long in the bathroom (hey, where else is a guy gonna find some privacy?).

At one point Eddie starts sneezing and he can’t seem to stop. “Hey, it’s moldy back here,” he says between ‘kerchoos.’ I give Hutch a disgusted look, but it just rolls off him.

After we drop Eddie at home we go back to Metro and give Dobey the low-down. He okays a stake-out on our snitch. In the meantime, we decide to go talk to Huggy and find out if there’s anyone else who might be on Roper’s hit list.

Also, it’s lunchtime.

“My friends, my friends,” Huggy says as we come in. Sheila, his redheaded Amazon of a new girlfriend and employee, is racking up the pool table.

“What can I get you fine gentlemen?”

“You got another one like her hanging out in the kitchen, Hug?” I give a wave to Sheila, who gives me a big grin. I didn’t think it was possible to fit that many teeth in one mouth. And they’re all pearly white.

“Alas, when they made her, they didn’t just break the mold, they shattered it into tiny pieces,” Huggy says, leaning on his pool cue to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Sweet-talker,” she says in this husky, low voice. Boy, she’s got that right. I don’t know anyone with a smoother line than Huggy.

Hutch looks a little impatient, and he tilts his head at Huggy, who picks it up.

“Would you excuse us, sweet girl? And bring a couple of lunch specials for my friends?”

After Sheila is gone, Hutch starts to tell Huggy what we found out, but he interrupts. “My brother, anyone with half an ear knows that something big is going down. People are scurrying every which way to keep out of Roper’s line of sight. Rumor has it the man has a hell of a retirement plan for his ex-employees.”

“Yeah, well, we’d like to retire _him_ ,” I say. Maybe I sound a little eager, because Hutch gives me a look, and Huggy echoes it, raising those thin eyebrows of his. He gives us a couple more names and locations, and we thank him then sit down in a booth to eat lunch.

“Something’s cooking, Hutch, I can smell it.” He knows I’m not talking about lunch. It’s this feeling you get, sometimes, that all the pieces of a case are in motion, and everything is liquid. That’s the time when you can really make headway.

“You really want this guy,” Hutch says, and he looks down at my hands, and I realize I’m rubbing them together.

“Well, yeah!” I say, “And I’d think you’d—”

Sheila interrupts me with two plates full of Special Burgers with all the trimmings, and we dig in. I take a look around between bites, and there’s no one within hearing range, so I say, “What was the deal with you last night, huh? I thought we had a plan.”

Hutch makes a face and puts his burger back down to wipe his hands. “Just wasn’t in the mood for partying,” he says. But he’s not looking at me.

“Coulda fooled me with all the tequila you put down,” I say.

I shake my head to let him know how much I hate it.

Hutch dumps a wad of bills on the table in apology, and we roll.

ooOoo

Four hours later, and not only have we identified our first body as a guy from Huggy’s list of Roper’s ex-friends, but we got in contact with two more who were willing to make a deal with us for the protection. Now all we have to do is sit back and wait.

Waiting we do a lot of, in our job. I know most people think detectives are all about the jumping over cars and waving badges and guns, and it’s true we do our fair share of that, but it seems like most of the time we’re either sitting in a car telling each other tall stories or sitting at our desks filling out paperwork.

At the end of the day, with nothing more doing, we clock out over the radio and Hutch drives me back to my car at Metro. On the ride over, he doesn’t say anything about us hooking up after, but since we’ve spent pretty much every night of the last two weeks getting it on in either his bedroom or mine, I decide to assume I’m invited over again tonight.

So I wait until he’s taken off, and then I follow him home.

“I’ve got chicken salad,” is all he says when I let myself into his pad. Most of the lights are off, but the one over the kitchen is on, and I can see he’s already set the table.

I take off my jacket and my piece and hang them up in the usual place. Then we start eating dinner.

I wish I could talk to him, ask him where he thinks we’re going with this thing between us, but it seems way too soon for a ‘relationship’ talk. Especially since we’re still seeing other people. Or trying to.

After dinner I help clean up, and then we sit down on his couch. I know nothing’s going to happen just yet, because he doesn’t like to do stuff outside the bedroom, but it’s great just hanging out and watching the Z channel with him (Hutch got this special cable box that lets him watch whole movies without commercials. Hutch _hates_ commercials). This time we’re watching some weird Australian movie about a retarded guy who falls in love with this older woman. It’s kind of sad, and kind of sweet, when they first get together. He’s so nervous.

Actually, he reminds me a little of Hutch when we first made it together.

I put my hand on his leg, but he gives me a warning look. Yeah, yeah, no hanky-panky outside the bedroom. God, he’s got hang-ups.

But it gets him to his feet, and he pulls me up and without saying anything at all, we go to his bedroom.

He spends a lot of time taking my clothes off, kissing bits of me as he does it, real slow. It’s sexy, but I get impatient pretty quick and push my shoes off and trap my socks by the toe to pull them off, and he’s smiling this crooked smile at me, so I guess he doesn’t mind me changing the pace.

Then I rip all his clothes off and throw him onto the bed.

I like that—that I can be rough with him and he can take it. Hell, he can take bullets. As soon as he’s down I’m all over him, sucking the smooth skin of his neck, and he’s laughing a little until I reach down and take hold of his cock, and then he sort of gasps with a tightness to it, so it comes out kind of rough.

I stroke him, long strokes, and he hardens up quick in my hand. I test the width of it, thinking my scary thought again, and I lean down low to whisper in his ear, “You know where I want you to put this—”

He rolls away from me, and I have to let go.

“I told you, I don’t w-want—” he starts to say.

“You’re such a liar,” I say before I can stop myself. Boy, what a mood wrecker. He gives me a pissed-off look and gets up off the bed, grabbing that orange robe that I hate and pulling it on.

“Hutch—”

“You’re too damned pushy, you know that?” he says, like it’s some huge surprise.

“Can’t we at least talk about why?”

But he’s out of there, those long legs taking him away fast. I roll off the bed and follow him in the dark out to the living room, where he’s hunched over the coffee table, just a dejected shadow.

I don’t get it. And I’m pretty good at reading him, but I’m confused as hell. I _know_ he wants it. And I know, no matter how good his mouth is, I want to fuck him someday. I was born to fuck.

I’m real good at it, too.

I make him move his legs so I can sit on the coffee table in front of him. It’s too dark to read his face very clearly, but I don’t really need to if I can get him talking. And the easiest way to do that is to piss him off.

“What’s the big deal? What’re you scared of, anyway?” I say.

“I’m not!” he says. He lifts his head and if it were a little brighter I know those eyes would be shooting blue like Han Solo’s blaster pistol. Funny thing is I meant it like a dare, but he really does sound scared. But of what?

“If it’s...that you don’t know how—”

And oh, that makes him growl. “Fuck you.”

“That’s what I’m going for,” I shoot right back.

“Why?” he says, and his voice turns crafty and evil-Hutchinson. “Why do you want it so bad?”

That’s no fair. Making it sound like I’m some kind of pansy-ass who’d roll over for just anyone. It pisses me off slow, and then faster, and all of a sudden I’m getting up, shoving back the coffee table to make more room.

I hear a rolling sound, and then a crash.

“Oh, shit.”

We both say that, and Hutch leans over to turn on the light, and I turn around to look. On the floor next to the coffee table, in pieces now, is Hutch’s little cherubs statue, the one that I could never figure out why the hell he had it.

I look back and his face is just crumpled, looking sadder than sad. I start to walk over to the thing and Hutch yells, “Don’t!” and goes himself, kneeling down to pick up the pieces. He bends down really low and picks up even the smallest little slivers of ceramic.

“Man, I’m sorry, Hutch.”

He’s holding the pieces in his hand when he looks up, and his face is smooth again, but he says, “It was Nancy’s.”

 _Oh, shit_. See, Nancy was his first wife. He married her right out of college, and she died completely unexpectedly of an aneurism just three weeks or so after they were married. He never, ever talks about her. It’s like he’s built up this little shrine in his head around her, and there she is, still perfect after all these years because they weren’t even married long enough to get sick of each other once in a while.

Boy, when I sin, I sin _big._

“I’m so, so sorry—”

He shakes his head and takes the pieces to the kitchen counter, where he lays them out carefully. I follow him, wanting to put my hand on his shoulder or something, but I don’t know which way he’s gonna jump, yet. Maybe he’ll get pissed and throw me out. Maybe he’ll get emotional or something, which would be worse.

But he looks up, and he must’ve seen something in my expression, because he says, almost like he’s trying to make me feel better, “It’s okay, Starsk. I think I can fix it.”

What’re you gonna do with a Blintz like that?

He gets out a bottle of Elmer’s and starts coating the ends, but he doesn’t put them together yet. And while he’s working, he starts talking about her. I’m amazed.

“She had _terrible_ taste,” he says, “I mean, look at this thing.” And it’s true, it’s probably one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s beyond kitschy into the scary zone just past it.

“It’s...pretty bad, all right,” I say carefully.

“She was always collecting crazy stuff like this. I think she felt sorry for it. We’d be at a garage sale or whatever and she would—” He cuts himself off, and I’m disappointed.

But then he says, real softly, without looking at me, “You know, we never even slept together before we got married.”

And one of those yellow bulbs goes off right over my head, so bright it makes me wince. But I don’t want to let on, so I just say, “She was something else, Hutch. I’m sorry what happened.”

Hutch nods and goes back to gluing the bits, this time adding one thin layer of glue and pressing the ends together. Then he puts a thin strip of masking tape around the sides, so that the little cherubs will keep hugging each other while it dries.

And then we go to bed. I wait until he falls asleep before I put my arms around him.

And I stay up, thinking.

ooOoo

The next day we’re on our watch at Eddie’s when this big barrel of a guy in a trench coat rolls up and gets out of his car. Hutch gives me a ‘isn’t that interesting?’ look, and I nod. Sure enough, over the transmitter I can hear how scared Eddie is when he opens the door, trying to sound like he was pleased. Hutch and I scramble out of the LTD and crash through the door yelling ‘Police!’ just as the guy pulls out his shotgun.

It gets a little messy after that. But Eddie comes out okay, and we take the guy down without killing him, which is good for us, because we’re after the big fish.

In the interrogation room, I make it clear right away that I’m push and Hutch can just hang back looking sympathetic. Which he does a great job on—a nice contrast considering I am like a monster that day. I can feel all my rage toward Roper like iron under my skin. The mechanic, a long-time employee of Roper’s named Cosgrove, doesn’t stand a snow-angel’s chance in Hell. He starts blathering and then blubbering and before Hutch can bring him a box of tissues he’s duking us to all the jobs he’s done for Roper over the years. So many it’d make you sick.

And the whole time I can feel Hutch’s puzzlement, pretty well concealed for most people, but I’m not most people. So afterward, I let him corner me outside the squad room.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asks, not confrontational, more confused.

“I told you: I want Roper.”

His forehead is all crinkled.

“Roper was the guy Callendar was here to hit,” I remind him patiently.

That clears it up for him, and he gives me this soft look, and actually bites his lip. I really want to hear what he’s going to say in that second, but right then who should come sashaying up but Susie from Payroll.

Oh, shit.

Hutch is very polite, smiling at her, and his eyes barely flick toward mine before he backs off to give us some privacy.

Privacy that, I realize, I really don’t want. The whole time I’m chatting with her, at least three quarters of my attention is on Hutch, so of course almost every word I say comes out all wrong, like heavy innuendo. I can’t seem to stop it. It’s like I have potty mouth. And I can see Hutch’s face growing colder and colder.

It matches the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Finally, I manage to put my mouth on hold. She tugs me on the arm when I try to go, but I just smile and give her a pat and then push into the squad room. Hutch is behind me, but he takes his sweet time getting a cup of coffee, and by the time he joins me at our desk, it’s all gone, whatever it was. He’s all business, talking about calling up the D.A. and speculating on how much of Cosgrove’s deposition was true.

And all I can think is, I’m a goddamn fool.

ooOoo

During dinner (Pizza. World’s Finest Food), I’m still feeling it—that cold. All day it’s been on my mind—Roper, and Callendar, and those awful couple of days when I was sure Hutch was a goner and I couldn’t _do_ anything. The enemy was inside him, and too tiny to see or fight. I guess he must’ve felt the same way when I got poisoned that time. I _know_ he understood, because afterward, when he’d had the serum and when they finally took him off the oxygen and he opened up those baby blues and I knew for certain that he was all there, that his gray matter hadn’t been cooked by the fever, well, I bawled my eyes out with my face mashed against the hospital bed right next to him, and he didn’t say anything, just put his hand in my hair and petted me.

Looking at him now, I can’t believe that it took me another two years to figure out what it all meant. And I _still_ didn’t have it all worked out, because here I am sleeping with the guy and somehow thinking I need an escape route. But there’s no escaping how I feel for him. There never was.

So I wait until we’re all settled on the couch, and he hands me the remote, but I put it on the coffee table, right in front of the cherubs, who are back in action. You have to look close to see the seams, but they’re there. He forgave me for that, so I’m hoping he’ll forgive me for taking so damned long to see what he really needed from me.

“Hutch,” I say, and he looks over at me and yawns before giving me a sleepy smile. It just about slaughters me when he smiles at me like that. I know—I’m a complete sap. I reach over and put my hand on his leg, and he narrows his eyes at me, that first warning sign not to get hot and heavy out here in the living room, but that’s not what I’m after, anyway. I just let my hand sit there, and after a moment he drops his own on top of it.

And I could swear he looks a little pink when he does it. Talk about sappy.

“I wanna make a deal with you,” I say, and my voice is a little dry.

Hutch raises his eyebrows.

“I want to...that is, I don’t want to....” Jeez, this is tough. I clear my throat and get it out really fast, “I-want-us-to-not-see-other-people.”

I didn’t think Hutch’s eyebrows could go any higher, but apparently he still had a little leeway. Then they collapse downward really fast, and that crease between them gets sharp.

“Starsk. You don’t have to—”

“It’s not about ‘have to’,” I say, cutting in. “I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want you to, either,” I add, just to be clear. No escape for him, either, that’s what I’d decided. I don’t know where we’re heading with this thing between us, but I’ll be damned if we’re not heading there together. Just the two of us.

His mouth snaps closed and he looks away. I can see he’s thinking hard; in addition to the crease, he’s got his jaw muscles working overtime.

“What about our cover?” he asks, finally, but his voice has gone real soft.

“We’ll think of something,” I say. “Maybe we’ll find a couple of girls we can trust to help us out. It’s not important.”

That makes him look back at me, and his throat moves. Suddenly, his hand goes really damp in mine, and he tugs it away, wiping it on his thigh. I let him, because I know the only reason he’s so damned nervous isn’t because he’s scared of losing his escape hatch.

He’s scared because he really wants to take the deal.

So I give him the time he needs. I rest against the back of the couch. My hand is still on his leg, and I stare down at it, at the long thighs, and his flat chest, which is moving a little fast, like he’s breathing too quick. And up past the two moles on his neck to his face, which is still pink. All of it _Hutch_ , and all of it what I mean to hold onto, as long as I can. No one else.

So, just to sweeten the pot, I let my eyes drift back down to the big bulge in the crotch of his pants. Pretty damned big, that bulge—makes him look like he’s always sporting wood, but it’s just that he’s hung like that.

And it’ll do. It’ll more than do, for me.

“Yeah, o-okay,” Hutch says, finally. You have to forgive him. Sometimes he’s a little slow.

But he’s mine.

So I grab his hand again and pull him up. “Let’s seal the deal,” I say, and I yank him over to the bedroom.

It gets a little crazy after that. I strip off his clothes quick as you please, and he has to stop and groan all the time because I keep touching him in interesting places while he’s trying to do the same to me. Finally we’re naked and in full body contact on my bed, and I look over at the mirror and see his ass moving, clenching as he pushes against my leg, his lips locked on my throat like he intends suck through the skin. And I remember that part of the deal that could be mine now, so I pull his head up to kiss him and I make my claim against his lips.

“Fuck me.”

He groans, this dark, raspy sound, and he nods frantically, kissing me again, catching my lower lip for a quick suck before tickling my tongue with his. I’m getting hot for it, no doubt, and even though I’m not quite sure what I’m getting into really, I know it will be good.

Hutch would never let it happen, otherwise.

He rolls off the bed and disappears, and I figure I know what he’s gone hunting for. I take the opportunity to pull up the sheets and move the pillows, and when he comes back into the room, I make sure the first sight he sees is my ass in the air waiting for him.

There’s this dull thud, and I grin. I’m a hundred percent certain I just made him drop whatever he’s found for lube.

“That’s my butterfingers,” I say, a pretty good unintentional pun on my part, because it could well _be_ butter, or Crisco, I have no idea, but whatever it is, sure enough it’s on Hutch’s fingers, and they’re stroking me in a place I’ve never been stroked before.

And damn. Damn. And _oh, God_.

I think I say that last part out loud when his finger slips inside of me, just a little, and then there’s more coldness and he slides it back in, much deeper, and I jump and jerked like a fish.

He stops right away.

“Don’t you FUCKING stop,” I say. Well, it’s more like I yell it. And his finger is back, sliding in and out, in and out, so slick and smooth, and the very tip of his finger crooks down as he pulls it out and _JESUS. JESUS. JESUS_ , is what my brain was thinking but the only sounds coming out of my mouth are these growly moans. I didn’t even know I could sound like that.

He leaves me again, and this time there’s more of him inside me, a couple of those thick fingers of his, and I’m moving my hips, pushing ’em down against the pillow, which is too soft to bring me off but just there enough to drive me out of my fucking mind.

Then there’s this pause, and Hutch pushes my knees further apart, and my ass lifts up higher. I feel his hot fucking flagpole resting right between my cheeks, but he doesn’t push it in. Instead, he leans over my back, covering me, the weight of him so warm on me, and his lips are on my cheek, and then his mouth is at the corner of mouth. I can barely reach his tongue with my own, but I give it my best shot.

He presses his cheek against mine, and then he lifts up again, and I know it’s time. I’m about to get fucked.

Who’d’ve thunk it? I’m practically begging for it; in fact, I made a ridiculous deal for it, just to feel his cock inside me. There’s not a few people who’d be absolutely amazed that Dave Starsky, Terror of the Interrogation Room, would be lying on his belly begging for his partner’s cock.

But what amazes _me_ is how many years it took me to get here.

I feel Hutch’s hands slip on my cheeks, and I realize he’s gotten a little out of control with the lube. His cock is slipping all around my asshole, and I hear him make a despairing sound. I could almost laugh, except I want it so bad I don’t want to risk putting him off.

And then I feel it. His cock, pushing into me, thick, hard pressure opening me wide. My eyes get wet. It’s more painful than I expected. A lot more. But it starts to ease up almost immediately once he’s in a little, and he isn’t moving, which I’m grateful for. I can hear him panting.

“Oh, my God,” he says, and I feel a drop of sweat fall onto the small of my back. It makes me smile. I push against him, just a little bit, and like an avalanche he slides into me fast. I groan, real loud.

It feels like the entire city of Poughkeepsie is up my ass.

“Sorry. Sorry,” he says, and I know he didn’t mean to move in so fast, but with all the lube he’d flung around it isn't surprising. He’s gone still, now, and I can feel the heavy weight of his cock pressing inside me behind my balls, and I can’t describe how good that is. It makes it worth it.

Especially when he starts to move.

“Oh, God Almighty,” I say, and I turn my face into the pillow to stifle the crazy mewling sounds my mouth starts making. My butt starts moving, and I shift my legs to get better leverage to meet him as he pushes in and out of me, every time hitting me in that incredible spot with that big piece of meat. Jesus. I can hear his balls slapping against my ass, right above my nuts, and I arch my back a little and suddenly everything is ten times more intense, too much for me to take, almost, and I see those funny flashes behind my eyeballs that mean I’m squeezing my eyes too tight.

“Starsk. Starsk. Oh, babe,” Hutch says, and he starts pounding harder, and I can’t help it, I reach underneath myself to grab my cock, there’s just enough room for me to stroke it.

“Just like that...just like that,” I say. “Don’t stop, please don’t...oh, GOD.” My balls pull up and I jerk my cock faster, feeling the heat and tightness of the big O about to hit. Hutch moans something above me, something about how hot I am, and I have to agree, I am a marvelous fuck, because just then I come so hard that tears squirt out of my eyes, and I can feel my ass trying to close tighter around him, but it’s impossible, there’s too much of him in me, so I just spurt all over my hand, drooling on the pillow because I’m yelling into it because it feels so goddamn good.

Afterward, I can’t breathe, and Hutch is still going, still fucking me like he’ll never stop. His hands are grabbing my hips, moving them, and he’s added this twist to his thrusts, as if he wants his cock to touch every inch of me inside. It’s insane. Then I hear him growl something deep, and I can feel it, I can feel him coming, this throbbing heat, and he pushes in real deep and stops suddenly.

“Oh, dear God,” he says, sounding almost weak.

I nod to show him I agree.

There’s this sudden, damp weight on my back. It feels like he’s resting his head there. He’s still inside me, and I think in a minute or two that won’t be such a good thing, but right now it’s heaven, having Hutch still there. Where he belongs, really.

He plants these tiny kisses on my back, right on the old scars. Hundreds of kisses, it feels like, and he’s whispering something, too low for me to hear. But that’s okay. I know he’ll tell me someday.

After that, he gets up, pulling out of me real slowly, and I’m grateful for that, but even so, my ass has about a million complaints about the procedure. And I’m all gooey under my belly and on my hand, not to mention the drool my face is resting in.

But Hutch takes care of all that. He goes away and comes back with towels, wet and dry, and cleans up all the mess, and I turn the pillow over and am ready for him when he crawls back into bed and pulls me against him.

He doesn’t say anything, just rests his forehead against mine on the pillow, his hand moving over my ass as if he were old Scrooge fondling his hoard of coins.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he whispers finally, really low.

“What, for the incredible fuck?” I say, just to keep things from getting too soapy. But he tilts his head back and stares into my face.

“Not that. You know what for,” he says, his eyes telling the story.

“It’s no big deal,” I say, but it is.

It’s the biggest deal there is.

 _Finis_.

May 25, 2006  
San Francisco, CA


End file.
